


In Judgment of Angels

by chemm80



Series: The Heavenly Host Are Among Us [1]
Category: Saving Grace (TV), Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-01
Updated: 2009-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace is sick of the supernatural invading her world.  She’s gonna get to the bottom of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Judgment of Angels

Nothing like the smell of blood in the morning,” Rhetta says dryly.

Grace squats beside her next to the body. The morning part isn’t odd—killers like the cover of darkness as a rule and Grace has stopped counting the sunrises she’s seen while working scenes just like this one. Well, not just like it. It’s unusual for the sheer volume of gore splattered across the apron of the suburban garage, telegraphing the violence of the attack like a red flag. So to speak.

“Shit…is his heart missing?” Grace asks, cocking her head and trying to peer sideways into the gaping hole in the victim’s chest.

“I think so, but this is…it’s a mess, Grace. I’m not sure what happened, to tell you the truth,” Rhetta says, shaking her head.

“Well, looks like you got enough blood spatter alone to keep you busy for awhile. I’ll get back with you later,” Grace finishes, getting up and heading back to the street for another look around. There’s a small crowd of onlookers, like always, and Grace scans their faces. Maybe someone’s just a little too interested in the proceedings.

And sure enough, there he is. _Howdy, stranger_. Black t-shirt, jeans, beat-up biker boots. Six feet tall, give or take, well built. He’s obviously studying the scene—her crime scene—watching the crowd, though he’s standing back from the rest, not talking to anybody. He doesn’t belong here.

“Hey, Grace,” Bailey says, distracting her by brandishing a small notebook. The uniformed officer runs down what he’s got from his interviews so far. When Grace looks back at the spectators, the suspicious guy is gone and she starts toward the spot she last saw him, leaving Bailey in mid sentence.

The deep rumble of a high-powered engine vibrates through the cool morning air. The sound is coming from somewhere around the corner and Grace heads toward it. A slick black sedan—mid 60’s model, to her eye—swings out of a side street and roars away, her mystery man behind the wheel.

**

‘Samuel Hagar’? You gotta be shittin’ me,” Grace says to herself, referring to the name she got from running the classic car’s plates. She takes another drag off her cigarette.

It’s no real shock when Earl appears on the stairs beside her without warning. She’s gotten pretty used to him just popping in to chat whenever she’s alone.

“I think you’d best leave that boy be, Grace,” Earl says. There’s an uncharacteristic gravity in his tone that makes her turn her head to look at him.

“Guy’s got something to hide. Sucks at it, too, with a corny alias like that,” Grace answers.

“He’s special, that one,” Earl says contemplatively.

“Yeah, people who stalk crime scenes usually are ‘special’—in a ‘person of interest’ kind of way.” Grace narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Why do you want me to leave him alone, Earl? What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything about the man, but Castiel...now he’s the one who worries me.”

“What…who the hell is Castiel?”

Earl smiles wryly. “Wrong appellation, Grace. Castiel’s an angel.”

Grace lets her head flop back on her neck and blows a cloud of smoke out with a loud gust. She gets up and grinds her cigarette out under her boot.

“ _Shit_. Well, damn, Earl, you don’t have to tell me twice…the last thing I need is another one of you guys underfoot,” Grace blusters, rolling her eyes as she paces the landing.

“Whoa, girl. Different department. Castiel definitely ain’t ‘one of us,’” Earl says, shaking his head.

Grace stops pacing and looks at Earl. He really does look a little unnerved, an emotion Grace doesn’t remember seeing on his face before. He seems…off balance. It’s a good look for him, she decides, smiling wickedly.

“Earl, are you scared of this Castiel guy?”

“No, he’s no threat to me, but it’s odd…you don’t see his type hanging out with humans much…” He pauses, shaking his head. “He can’t be here for anything good, Grace. They don’t work like that. Best to just stay out of his way.”

“Earl…” Grace starts, but of course Earl’s already gone. _Stay out of his way?_

“Like hell I will.”

**

It’s all of two hours before Grace gets word on the black car—it’s turns out to be a ’67 Chevy Impala—from her street contacts. Ham is at a counseling session and Grace is on her way out the door as soon as she hangs up the phone with her informant. She’s going to get to the bottom of this angel bullshit, one way or another.

The motel is a rundown pile of shit off of I-40, not far from the crime scene this morning. Grace parks and starts for the desk, snorting and rolling her eyes at the faded lettering on the shabby sign over the front door: Last Chance Motel.

“Dean Smith?” Grace asks, and the bored desk clerk just shrugs. He doesn’t seem much interested in arguing with the OCPD, and all it takes is a flash of her badge to get her the room number. She pushes through the exit door just in time to see a guy get into the Impala and drive off. It’s not the man she saw at the crime scene; this one’s much darker.

She pulls her gun and sidles to number 12, checks the door. It’s on the west side of the building and the wood is cracked, paint blistered and peeling from the daily onslaught of the hot evening sun. Shouldn’t be any trouble to break open, which is good, because she’s counting on the element of surprise here.

She takes a deep breath and mentally counts to three, kicks the door with a force that jars her to the base of her spine, mixing with the small tingle of relief when the door pops open first try. She swings around the corner, gun trained, sweeping the room, and maybe the guy wasn’t as surprised as he should have been because he’s _right the fuck there_ , with a pearl-handled .45 pointed at her chest.

“Freeze! OCPD!” Grace bellows, putting everything she’s got behind the order.

The guy doesn’t move, just eyes her steadily from behind the pistol’s sight. Her eyes are adjusting to the dimmer light inside the room now, and she sees he’s in his early to mid thirties, a hell of a good-looking guy with dark reddish-blonde hair, gorgeous green eyes and a killer mouth.

But she needs to be worrying about what’s going on inside his head right now. Grace meets his hard predator’s focus and she’s impressed enough by his bearing to wonder what his story is. Ex-military, maybe? Whatever…in Grace’s experience, if he warrants an angel on his shoulder, his hands are plenty dirty, one way or another.

They’re at an impasse and they both know it, but Grace was the one who busted the door down so she breaks the silence.

“Relax…Dean, is it?…or maybe it’s Sammy?”

He flinches a little at the second name and she smiles.

“Car’s registered to ‘Samuel Hagar.’ That your name? Or maybe Sammy’s the tall drink of water just left here in the car?”

“I answer to ‘Dean,’” the guy says, gaze unwavering.

“Grace Hanadarko. Just wanna talk to you, Dean,” she says, indicating the badge on her hip.

That gets a smirk out of him.

“Cops are always telling me they just want to talk. Usually they say it right before they slap me in a pair of handcuffs and drag me off to a cell,” Dean says wryly. “It’s really not as fun as it sounds,” he adds.

“Well, you haven’t been cuffed by me yet, have you now, cowboy?” Grace drawls, packing it with every ounce of sex she can muster.

Dean laughs and it’s such a sweet sound, so deep and throaty, that Grace thinks it was well worth all this effort just to hear that laugh. She makes a decision then and raises her gun muzzle to the ceiling, shows him her hands in a gesture of surrender and waits. It could be a mistake, but she’s learned to trust her instincts after all these years on the job and she thinks if he was planning on shooting her, he’d have done it by now. Besides, she’s not getting a criminal vibe from the guy. In fact, the way he carries himself actually makes her think more of a cop.

The gamble works, and he takes his gun off her, too. He’s probably underestimating her because of her small stature but Grace is used to that, and she invites him to let his guard down a little more by indicating the bed with a nod and a raised eyebrow.

“Mind if I sit?” she asks, smiling brightly.

“Please. Mi casa es su casa,” he says dryly.

Grace pushes the door shut behind her, sits down near the foot of the bed and waits. He keeps some distance between them, still wary, but he sits, too, laying his pistol down on the bed beside him, flicking a glance at hers. She can almost see him calculating the time it would take each of them to re-arm and it makes her smile.

“Okay, Detective, I’m all yours,” Dean says, smirking. “What did you have in mind?”

“Call me Grace. I saw you at my crime scene this morning,” Grace says, slipping into interrogatory mode and ignoring his innuendo.

His only answer is a slightly raised eyebrow, not confirming or denying anything and Grace is intrigued. She also feels better about trusting him. Most of the criminals she runs across are dumb as rocks, and this guy definitely isn’t that.

“I’m here about an angel,” she says.

It’s a subtle reaction—an untrained eye probably wouldn’t have even seen it—but it’s pretty obvious when he lays his hand back on his gun.

“An angel?” He nods slowly, then leans toward her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Did we forget our medication this morning, Detective?”

Grace smiles narrowly.

“Ah, you got a sense of humor. I hope Castiel appreciates what a funny guy you are.”

Dean face closes off, goes still and angry. _Direct hit._

“Just…who are you? Whose side are you on?” Dean growls.

“I’m a cop, and I’m not on any ‘side’…what the hell are you talking about? Earl said…”

And she’s a little flustered now, too, because _shit_ —she didn’t even see him pick up the gun and he’s got it aimed at her.

“You come bustin’ in here—and you’re lucky you’re still alive after that, by the way—but angel or demon, I’m gonna blow your head off here and now if you don’t start talking,” he rasps, looking at her hard and cocking the pistol.

There’s not a single doubt in Grace’s mind that he means every word and she shows him her palms.

“Look, man, take it easy...I saw you at my crime scene this morning and Earl started talking about your angel. I tracked you down because I’m sick of this supernatural bullshit every time I turn around…”

A confused frown crosses Dean’s face. “Who the fuck is Earl?”

Grace stops talking mid sentence and sighs.

“Earl’s an angel.”

“An angel named Earl. Seriously?”

“I know,” Grace says, rolling her eyes. “I said the same thing, but I’ve got proof. I can’t explain it, but he’s the real thing. He’s the one who told me about the one you’re stuck with, Castiel.”

Dean snorts softly and relaxes a little, so Grace does, too.

“The heavenly host. They are a joy to be around, aren’t they?”

She chuckles.

“I guess Earl’s not so bad, once I got used to him just materializing out of nowhere…and fluttering off to Timbuktu or some shit just about the time I think he’s gonna be good for something.”

“Yeah, that does kind of sound like the angels I’ve met. It’s amazing what you can get used to,” Dean laughs. He lowers the gun.

“Yeah.” Grace watches his face, noticing how much younger he looks when he laughs, in spite of the way it deepens the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He really is a good-looking son of a bitch.

“Hey, what does Castiel look like? To you, I mean,” Grace asks.

A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, his _vessel_ wears a suit and a trench coat. ‘Holy tax accountant’ is about the best description I can come up with. And the way he looks at you is freaky…like you’re a bug in a jar.”

Grace thinks about that for a minute.

“I guess I’d have to say Earl’s more like a cross between Dr. Phil and Will Rogers, Jr.”

Dean smiles, looking up at her.

“So Earl knows Castiel?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, guess they met at the company picnic or something. Didn’t sound like they were too friendly, though. What does he want with you?”

Dean shakes his head, looks down and picks at the seam of his jeans for a moment or two before he speaks.

“He wants me to save the world,” Dean says finally.

“Shit!” Grace laughs. “Is that all? I thought some guy already did that…what was his name…oh yeah…Jesus Christ, wasn’t it?”

Dean chuckles softly, but without much humor. “Evidently they expect me to finish the job.”

“Wow. Makes Earl seem not so bad. He just wants me to save myself.”

He catches her eye then, holds her gaze with a green stare that sears like a laser, makes her skin feel hot and tight, too small to hold her.

“Save yourself…from what, Grace?” he rumbles.

And it’s messed up because she feels completely out of control and she hasn’t even been drinking, but there’s something in his eyes, so tired, so sad, and she can’t help it. Grace pivots on her supporting arm so she’s on all fours on the bed, starts crawling slowly up toward him, keeping the eye contact until she stops with her face inches from his.

“From my sins,” she whispers.

She leans in, presses her lips against that amazing mouth that promises so much, and damned if he can’t back it up. He twines the fingers of one hand into her hair and slips the other around her waist, kissing her slow and slick, sweet slide of tongue between her lips, licking, sucking gently at her mouth. _God, he’s so fucking good at this._ He smells like leather and tastes like coffee and she puts her hands on him to steady herself, palms on either side of his neck, thumbs stroking the soft skin just under his ears. He keeps exploring her mouth, his tongue circling hers lazily, gliding slow like he’s got all the time in the world, winding her up until she’s breathing hard, warmth building low in her belly.

Grace walks her knees forward and swings one leg over his, grinds against the hard muscle of his thigh and he shifts, breathes a groan into her mouth as he cups her ass in both hands and pulls her across his lap. He slips one hand between them, sliding it between her legs and pressing firm against the center of her with the heel of his palm.

“Holy shit,” Grace breathes, grabbing at him for balance, digging her fingers into his shoulders, rocking against the pressure of his hand. His other hand is still tangled in her hair and he tugs gently, pulling her head back, exposing her neck to his teeth, that gorgeous mouth. He’s sucking and tonguing at her throat, and shit, it feels so incredible, sends shivers rolling down her spine. He moves one hand to the small of her back, holding her still and keeping the other against her crotch, rubbing her through her jeans. Fuck, she’s already on the edge with it, and he’s not slowing down. Then he starts _talking_.

“Oh _hell_ , yes…so good…gonna come for me, just like this, aren’t you… _yeah_ ,” he whispers against her neck and Grace is just trying to hang on, breath coming in short gasps and near-sobs, rocking against his hand. He squeezes her gently, fingers barely moving, letting her control the rhythm until the slow burn of it tingles up from the center of her and she comes against his hand, crying out and digging her fingers into the thick muscles of his shoulders.

He holds her there until she’s starting to come down, then he bends his knees and draws his legs underneath him, lowering her onto the bed in one graceful movement, leaning over her. He looks down at her for a moment, eyes going serious as he stares into hers. He leans down next to her ear, licking and sucking over her pulse.

“I’ll tell you something, Detective, if I’d met more cops like you my life might have gone a whole different way.”

“There are no more like me,” she says, giggling and tilting her head to make more room for him, ruffling her fingers through his hair.

“I bet that’s the truth,” he says and chuckles with her, soft and low; somehow making it sound dirty as hell.

Then he’s kissing her again, for serious this time, wet and hard, tongue sliding slick against hers, and she sucks it into her mouth, breath coming faster, feeling the hard line of his dick pressing against her hip. Grace runs her hands up under his shirt, scratching lightly with her nails and he shudders hard, making her laugh softly.

“Too many clothes,” she whispers, as he pulls back to look, or hell, just to breathe, maybe, whatever—he’s worth a second look himself, and she takes her time doing just that.

“I like the way you think, Detective,” Dean says, then chuckles softly. “Huh. That’s one thing I never thought I’d hear myself say.”

She smiles back, then reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it off over her head, arches up and unfastens her bra and slips that off too, flings it away from her, never taking her eyes off his. It shuts him up and his eyes darken, but he’s still fully clothed and that’s gotta change right the fuck now.

Grace runs her fingers under the edge of his t-shirt and he pulls back a little, ghost of hesitation that makes no sense to her—he hasn’t been the least bit shy up to this point. Then he seems to come to some sort of decision and pulls the shirt up himself, reaching behind his head and skinning it off over his head from back to front, sliding his arms out last. His left shoulder catches her eye, pinkish scar in the shape of a handprint, like it’s been burned there, branded on.

“Jesus Christ!” Grace spits out, before she can even think to stop it.

Dean’s face crinkles and twitches, like he can’t decide whether to laugh or frown.

“No. Castiel,” he answers, finally.

Looking at it makes Grace feel strange, maybe even a little scared. It’s kind of painful-looking and it’s just so odd, like nothing she’s ever seen before.

Dean waits a minute, letting her look and watching her face. Then he must decide she’s not going to freak out on him completely, because he leans down without ceremony and takes her left nipple into his mouth and sucks gently, licking and swirling his tongue over it, and Grace forgets about angels and scars and pain. He keeps it up while he’s undoing her jeans, only pulling away when he has to reach for her boots to get everything off, watching her panting, skin pebbling under his stare, so intense she can feel it on her skin, eyes like green crystals. He strips his own jeans off and then he’s standing there naked, gorgeous, cock rising up hard and he strokes his hand up and down it a couple of times, still watching her.

Grace looks him straight in the eye, bends her knees and lets her legs fall open. Dean’s chin drops, and he licks his lips. His eyes go half-closed then as he drops to his knees and lowers himself over her, rubs his face against the soft skin of her inner thigh, his stubble scratching and stirring up gooseflesh that spreads over every inch of skin like a wave. He moves upward slowly, dragging his mouth up her leg, across her stomach, licking, sucking wet kisses over her belly button and back down the crease of her leg, everywhere except where she really wants him, until she’s twitching and squirming under him. He pulls back, chuckling soft and sexy and laying his forearm across her hips to hold her down.

He gives her a sly look from under his brows and arches his neck, runs his tongue down the center of her, hot and slick, working her swollen clit and fucking his tongue inside her until she’s straining against his arm—trying to move away, move closer, she can’t tell—it’s too much and she wants more. She bucks against him and he slides two fingers inside her. Grace chokes back a cry.

“Nuh-uh,” he grunts. “Wanna hear you.”

“S’good,” is all she can manage, and that’s not like her—her smart-ass mouth is the one thing that never lets her down but _shit_ —she’s supposed to retain the ability to form _words_ with him doing that?

He snorts a soft laugh against her skin, but he keeps sucking at her and working her with his hand, tongue flicking and circling, and it’s enough to stop her from caring about what he thinks of her. Then he fastens his lips over the hard nub and sucks, curls his fingers inside her, and she’s going over the edge again, coming in hard, tight little spasms. She’s still riding the high of it when she reaches for him, pulling him up her body, words spilling out of her, little sense as they make:

“Holy _shit_ … fuck me now…come on,” she’s babbling, she knows, but she couldn’t care less, and he comes to her. He’s slipped on a condom at some point, bless him—she doesn’t want to wait anymore to feel him inside her and he doesn’t make her, sinking straight into her in a hot, slow glide, groaning deep in his chest as she takes him in.

_Hard... slick…soft… perfect—God_ , he feels so good and she wraps her legs around him, reaches up and pulls his head down, seals her mouth over his, kissing, sucking, biting as he fucks her with slow, rolling shoves of his hips, driving soft sounds from her with every thrust. Grace feels weightless, blissed out, like she could do this forever, but after a couple of minutes he pulls away from her mouth and takes hold of her hips, leaning back and dragging her up onto his lap. Grace has always liked sex like this, riding them face to face where she can see what’s in their eyes, the effect she’s having on them, the control she’s got over them right at that moment.

But this guy—his eyes, shit, looking at her like there’s no one else in the world but her. She could spend a long time searching out the mysteries in that sea of green—damn it, she’s got to stop thinking that way, because that ain’t gonna happen, not here and not ever with her, but there’s just something about this guy, too much, too intense. She presses her face into his neck to break the connection.

Then he bites the muscle at her shoulder and she shudders, feels him smile against her skin and she grabs hold of him, bucks and twists, riding him in earnest. He tips his head back, letting out soft grunts against her neck with their rhythm, and this is better, she’s back on top again, knows how to do this. She squeezes around him, rocking her hips into him, until he’s panting in short, sharp breaths. Straining and gripping her ass with both hands, he groans and comes, body spasming, burying his face in her hair.

He reaches out a hand for support and lowers them sideways until they’re resting on the bed, limbs still tangled together, heavy breathing ramping down slowly.

“So, that’s one more to add to my tab,” Grace breathes.

Dean pushes a lock of her hair away from her face and looks at her with half-lidded eyes.

“What? Your long list of sins?” he says, slight note of scorn in his voice. “If sex with a stranger is the worst thing you’re paying for, I don’t think Earl has much to worry about.”

She runs her finger up and down his chest, thinking about it.

“And what about you, Dean?”

The corner of his mouth twitches and the sad look comes back. He answers her by pulling her against him and kissing her again.

She’s still sorry she asked.


End file.
